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Elegy for Lee Henderson

Nearly three the time the thresher came,
I followed its deep ruts through the gateyard,
Watched giant gears churn
To the pull of seven horse-teams:

From my fence post, I pretend
To be the teamster on his platform;
Round and round I pace the teams
In toasting sun. Father pitches bundles.

Through cold days in October
I play in the thresher tracks,
Then they are gone with winter
And I forget them.

One day, not Sunday, we go to church.
Father isn’t there; I sit in front with Mama.
I look for him at home, crowded
Among neighbors and people I don’t know.

A morning next spring, I walk
Into the gateyard streaked with thaw,
And there are the ruts, solid as ever.

I set my foot into a track, step
Carefully to keep the pattern
Until it disappears
Under leftover crests of snow

Each day with the thaw
I watch the ruts come back
As if they never went away.

for my father